


Go Fast

by rainer76



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: First Time, Hannibal's leather jacket, M/M, Motorcycles, Post Season 3, Smut, alleyways
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-22
Updated: 2017-03-22
Packaged: 2018-10-09 03:49:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,716
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10403229
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rainer76/pseuds/rainer76
Summary: Will tastes like the lemon sorbet he ate on the river pier, wind-mussed and happy.





	

Hannibal is a generous lover. Passionate, explorative with his touch and with an oral fixation that women have complimented him on _vigorously_. He’s not inexperienced.  It’s just that all of his sexual exploits were with women; and the majority of those were a convenient excuse to pursue carnal activities of a more - illegal - nature.

Bedelia was an exception. There was no hiding what he did in his spare hours with her.

Will isn’t shy about adjusting the angle of Hannibal’s head, thumb on his jaw and fingers in his silver hair, until Hannibal acquiesces and tilts left. The soft bump of their noses and the drag of Will’s cheek on his own is rough with stubble. Will is a slow kisser.  His hands are nimble and clever on Hannibal’s fly, the zipper undone with a practiced flick. He steals the air out of Hannibal’s lungs. Possessively, he refills it with his own.

Will tastes like the lemon sorbet he ate on the river pier, wind-mussed and happy.

He tastes like late-afternoon sunshine fading to twilight. He tastes bitter and potentially dangerous, his mood swift as an undertow.

His mouth is numbingly cold against Hannibal’s. Will shocks his pulse into a faster tattoo when knuckles brush against his stomach, when he murmurs approval into Hannibal’s mouth. Will leans bodily against him, using weight to hold Hannibal still, knees knocking Hannibal’s thighs apart, slim hips flush to Hannibal’s groin. He settles there, warm and loose in the space he created for himself.  Hannibal can feel the curve of his smile.

Hannibal had stiffened to begin with, more out of surprise than arousal, back against blue cobblestone when Will shoved him unexpectedly against the alley wall.  He had surmised someone had recognised them, ready to react to a threat.  Instead, Will kissed him.

There’s a hand between his legs, fingers arrowed downward to cup Hannibal’s balls, smoothing over the stitching of his denim. The bike is parked behind them, the sky purple-black above, lit up by the cities lights until the memory of stars and constellations is a distant folklore. He can hear the buzz of street conversation and Hannibal bites back a whine of protest when Will removes his hand.

Hannibal’s never been rendered speechless before. He’s never wanted to clamp his teeth shut; swallow down a reaction that might break a fortuitous moment. He widens his stance in encouragement, and tries to recapture Will’s hot mouth as the other man rucks up Hannibal’s shirt.

Except Will’s mouth is on his torso instead, head ducking down; it fastens painfully on one tight nipple. Hannibal’s hips snap forward. Will bites down and worries at the small nub, his other hand smoothing Hannibal’s left flank.

“Let me – “ Hannibal tries.

Will shakes his head like a dog with a bone, teeth tight, and the pain jolts down Hannibal’s belly and goes straight to his dick. His stomach flattens. He moans, the sound torn out of him. His hands find the back of Will’s head and holds him there gently, trying to enforce stillness.

Will lets go. The sting in his nipple redoubles with the return of cold air, circulation, with the sudden release of pressure. “Stay,” Will instructs.

Protesting, Hannibal tries: “I wanted – “

“Candles and flowers, I bet, you wanted to set a 'scene.' You probably had a schedule allotted.” He makes eye contact directly, no attempt at prevarication. “I’m not in the mood for poetry. I want to suck your dick instead.”

Will, apparently, is in the mood for dirty words and unsanitary alleyways, and possibly murder because if anyone stumbles upon them now, _if they interrupt,_ Hannibal will gut them from navel to collarbone. It’s a struggle to make his fingers loosen, to release Will long enough so he can go to his knees on the cobblestones. Will peels the flaps of Hannibal's jeans aside, lowers the denim and underwear just far enough to reveal Hannibal’s cock, to effectively hobble him about the thighs. And then he goes to work.

It’s forcefully quick; designed for the fastest outcome. Will hollows his cheeks, lips pursed together, and swallows the tip of Hannibal's cock - and then he keeps going - sliding down the hot length of him like a porn star, like a man who’s gag reflex was utterly destroyed when Hannibal fitted a plastic tube down his throat. It’s warm heat and wet suction, the reaction it elicits uncompromising. It’s a grotty wall against his spine, Will at his feet, hair dishevelled: it’s the knowledge that despite their relative positions Hannibal is _not_ in control of this encounter. He groans, legs jittering in place. Hannibal half folds over the top of him, hands on Will’s shoulders for support, and feels the other man fondle his balls, a quick bounce on the palm of one hand as if measuring their weight. Will pulls off, tongue tracing the vein, swiping over the top of him cat-quick.

Hannibal is leaking copiously when Will sucks at his slit - and the world goes deafening silent for one second - Hannibal pants.

He had a plan. A refined plan.  Of dinners. Of conversations that weaved around the topic before the actual event took place. He had an image of warm fires, colours reflecting on Will’s bared skin like an oil-painting, of touching each other tenderly... for hours.

His plan didn’t imagine Will sucking a finger into his own mouth, placed alongside Hannibal’s dick. It didn’t include being swallowed to the root while Will stayed there, face pressed against Hannibal’s pubic bone, a wet finger circling his ass until it pushed inside unceremoniously. It didn’t include coming like a teenager, zero to a hundred as he pulsed down Will’s throat in a drawn-out paroxysm. Hannibal's staying power, his expertise as a lover of duration, now moot.  He’s breathing’s wretched, gone wet. He’s knees won’t lock. His body weight wants to slough downward until he's beside Will on the cobbles, entangled together.

It's the other man who keeps him upright - who keeps suckling at his flesh, face between his legs - until Hannibal's trembling bodily. The finger inside crooks, strokes across his prostate. Will pulls away, lips tight, and licks at him a final time, from balls to root, to the slit of his spent cock.

“Enough." It sounds closer to a sob than a command. Something inside cracks open, his composure gone to ribbons.

The finger, obstinately, stays where it is.

Will rests his forehead against Hannibal’s belly, breathing hot and fast against his skin, and adds a second finger. “Come on,” Will coaxes. “You’ve handled worse.” The third's a stretch, potentially painful if Hannibal hadn’t been blown to nirvana and back. His body opens for it, traitorous under Will’s verbal encouragement.  Helpless against any plea he might have. Will smiles sweetly. The dark ringlets on his forehead are damp with sweat: Dolarhyde’s scar is a silver thread in the gloom. Voices carry in the street, echo in the alleyway. Will moves upright, fingers still hooked into Hannibal’s undercarriage, and covers him bodily, kissing slack lips and nipping at Hannibal’s throat until the party of three pass the alleyway and move on.

Hannibal’s dick, still hanging out of his jeans, has softened. His breath keeps hitching with every press of Will’s digits into his body.

Will's expression is warm, certain of itself. “You’re going to get hard for me again.”

Hannibal would protest. He’s in his forties. He’s refractory period isn’t that quick. Desire doesn’t necessary translate into a physical manifestation - despite how willing the mind might be.

Will, sneakily, preempts any attempt at speech. He braces his free hand against the wall, beside Hannibal’s head, and slopes his torso forward until they're flush. His kiss is still the softest part of the encounter. His tongue shy, quick flicks of contact followed by withdrawal, until Hannibal's actively chasing him. He doesn’t taste like lemon sorbet anymore, or an afternoon spent by the river, of lying in the shaded grass and laughing. He tastes of Hannibal. Of Hannibal’s seed.  Of Hannibal's want. The fingers are smooth and relentless against his prostrate, despite the changed angle, and Hannibal feels himself fill out too soon, his skin still sore as his flagging erection stiffens again. He could taste _himself_ on Will’s breath.  He wants to taste it again.

Will glances down in patented interest. “I want you to fuck me.”

Zero to a hundred, Hannibal confirms, light-headed as every drop of blood surges south.

He could lean Will over the bike, brace his body against the handlebars, and fuck him right now. Hannibal might have envisioned a different scenario for their first time together but he prides himself on adaptability. “Yes,” he says, fervently. _Please,_ he bites back, because he’s wanted Will since he first encountered the other man in Jack Crawford’s office, all those years ago, and not as a sweet-faced alibi.  He wanted Will, his quick-silver mind, he wanted a participant, a partner to his crimes. Hannibal _has_ fucked him. In every conceivable way sans skin against skin.

“Not here,” Will corrects, off-handedly, and takes his fingers out, one at a time.   Will readjusts the underwear - the elastic band snapping just under his cock-head, pining it in place uncomfortably - and then re-zips Hannibal's jeans. “Back at our place.” He looks at the motorcycle and takes his position on the back seat, unruffled and possessing more calm than any man ought to.

Hannibal stares at him.  He feels like he's been assaulted by a hurricane. “It's not safe for me to drive in this condition.”

“When has being in your company _ever_ been safe?” Will goads. He pats the seat in front. When Hannibal takes his place, Will scoots up behind him, jolting Hannibal forward a fraction until his erection is pressed hard against the gas tank. Will loops both arms around his waist, hands ducking into Hannibal’s leather jacket, and grins with pointed teeth when the starter button is pressed.

The motorcycle wakes with a jar, the gas-tank vibrates _hard_ between his spread legs. Hannibal's already come once, it takes concentrated effort not to bite his tongue, to uncross his eyes.  Will’s a solid line against his back, his teeth pressed against Hannibal’s nape. “Go fast,” he suggests.

Go fast indeed.  Hannibal's not sure if he's going to survive the night.


End file.
